Fire and Ice
by Miss-Statement
Summary: Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice. She blocked it out. She doesn't understand the concept of shy. She always paid that respect back. Music is what connects them to each other, but the question is: Is that enough? Can music ever be enough? (Slight AU, going to be a love triangle here- let me know what you think about the final pairing. Rating may change- )
1. Chapter 1

** CHAPTER ONE. **

**(don't argue with me. it is, in fact, a very creative name for a chapter. it's okay to tell me I'm a genius. ;) )**

* * *

><p><em>Some say the world will end in fire,<em>

_Some say in ice._

_From what I've tasted of desire_

_I hold with those who favor fire._

_But if it had to perish twice,_

_I think I know enough of hate_

_To say that for destruction ice_

_Is also great_

_And will suffice._

_-Robert Frost, "Fire and Ice"_

* * *

><p>She never went to preschool.<p>

And, maybe, that's all the difference in their lives that there ever needed to be. While she's not at preschool, learning and interacting with other kids her age, Chloe Beale is. Chloe's there, learning the alphabet and numbers, playing dress-up and tag and patty-cake with the other kids. Chloe makes a lot of friends, being unafraid to talk to them and often sharing cookies and other snacks. Chloe's taught to memorize her address and home phone number. Chloe meets a girl named Aubrey, and though Aubrey sits up straight and yells at Chloe for making messes, they become best friends through one common interest. As compared to Chloe and Aubrey, though, she doesn't go to preschool. She stays at home.

She doesn't have any brothers or sisters.

Her father's a professor at Barden College, so both she and her mother stay with him at an apartment on campus. There aren't any children her age for her to play with.

Most of the time, she's by herself.

Sometimes her father gives extra credit to his students if they tutor her when they don't have a class. She learns things that way; things like criminal justice and law, religious studies, Greek mythology, philosophy, psychology, pre-med and some physics. She doesn't really understand all of it, but they bring her coloring books and crayons sometimes instead. She's not good at coloring.

In this way, she learns plenty about numbers and letters and words. She can almost perfectly read a clock- one of the circular ones with all the weird numbers- and one time her father sent a student who had been studying abroad to tutor her. She knows a lot about the German language now. There's never been a set plan or schedule for her education. The little girl just learns whatever she can whenever she can. So long as she has a basic understanding of things, no one really cares. If she's lucky then sometimes her father will bring her to lectures with him. She raises her hands in his classes when she knows the answer, though sometimes she'll get the name's of authors or titles mixed up. Everyone thinks it adorable how much she takes after her father; she knows about Keats and Emily Dickenson, and can speak in great detail about "The Great Gatsby" (or, as much as a four year old can and still understand it- more often, she's just reciting what her father's said). They both hate movies.

She doesn't know how to read or write, herself, or spell her name. She knows where their apartment is and how to get to it, but she doesn't know the specific address. No one's ever thought to teach her how to call people over the phone. She can't count money. She doesn't know how to play tag, but she knows that Santa isn't real, unlike most kids her age.

When her father doesn't drag her around to lectures, and when there aren't any students available to tutor her, and when her mother's not up to being her mother that day, she's alone. She's not sure what to do with her time, but she has quite a sense of adventure. And she feels so small, and the college she lives at is so big, she just wants to explore it all. When she's left alone she'll spend hours crawling into every nook and cranny she can get into on the campus. People don't really notice the odd little four year old running around.

One time she walked so far and for so long that she got lost.

It wasn't dark; about the late afternoon. Her mother had been distracted with playing online poker in her room. Her father had lectures all day. Her crayons weren't so interesting, and her mother told her to "go outside and play" when she asked if her mother wanted to play with her.

She didn't recognize any of the buildings around her. Everything looked so large. The streets were crowded with cars honking, people chattering, the heavy steps of people walking, and the screaming of breaks in the traffic. There were men dressed up in business suits bustling passed her busily, talking loudly on their cellphones. A college student that smelled strange cussed at her for being in his way as he skated passed. Someone knocked into her and she stumbled. It was past lunchtime and she hadn't eaten yet all day. She felt intimidated.

Her lip trembled.

The final straw came when a dog being walked by a lady about her mother's age snarled and lunged at her with teeth bared.

She ran crying into the nearest building, bursting through a second set of doors and threw herself underneath a table as she curled up in a ball.

It didn't take long before her keening caught the notice of one of the interns there.

"Hey'a sweetheart," a big girl crooned, pulling a chair away from the table and stooping down to look at her. The girl's short, dark hair framed her face. "Where'd you come from?"

She blearily peered up at the older girl who was smiling at her gently. Her cheeks were stained from her tears, which she quickly blinked away. She didn't move from her spot beneath the table. "I got la- lost," she sniffled.

"Well," the older girl started kindly. "How about I help you get home?" The girl offered her a hand which she shrunk away from.

"My momma told me I'm not a'supposed to talk to strangers," she stated as she stared at the hand suspiciously, eyes furrowed. "And she told me never to go anywhere with a someone I didn't know." She looked up into the older girl's eyes which were crinkled at the corners.

"Then you're a very smart girl to listen to your mother," the intern said, nodding in agreement with a serious expression on her face. The girl smirked, "But we won't be strangers anymore if we say our names, right?"

She was puzzled by the question; unsure. "I guess..." She hesitantly agreed.

The older girl smiled fully and said confidently, "My name's Julianna, but you can call me Jules. What's your name?" The girl, Jules, offered a hand again.

"Rebeca," she answered softly. She took the girl's hand and crawled out from the table.

The girl had a somewhat mischievous gleam in her eyes. "Well then, Rebeca, how would you like to help me run a radio station?"

The four year old smiled gleefully and forgot about her tears.

It took several hours more before her parents found her. In that span of time Jules had another intern run out for a late lunch/dinner for the two of them, and she'd learned a variety of things about music. From bands like Led Zepplin, and the Beatles, and Nervona, to musical artists like Tupoc and Madonna and Johnny Cash. She learned about different instruments and that some people sang in pitches like soprano, alto, and tenor. She learned that there were different genres of music, not just the ones that they played at the radio station, such as jazz and dubstep, pop, country, the blues, rock, punk rock, alternative, rap... Jules showed her how to set up music and play it over the radio, too, with her hefty looking laptop. Jules introduced her to vinyl and CDs as well as the station's radio. Anything and everything music, she suddenly became enthralled. There was so much for her to learn. She was overloaded with sounds and songs and beats that her tiny hands and voice immediately tried to duplicate.

Every half hour or so, Jules would take a moment to announce over the radio that there was a- "How old are you, Beca?" She proudly held up four fingers- four year old girl at the station named Rebeca Mitchell, and that if she was your child to show up at the radio station with proof of guardianship and identification by nine o'clock or they'd be calling social services. She didn't know her address or phone number, had only ever called her parents "mom" or "dad" so she didn't know their first names, otherwise Rebeca might've been more help.

Her father doesn't listen to the radio; he doesn't believe in that sort of thing. It ruins the mind. Before this point in time, she'd never even heard music before. To her, it was magic. Something more mystical than the stories her father taught about. And Jules seemed to know everything about music. At this point, Jules became Beca's hero.

Nine o'clock came and passed, and Jules had notified the police. She was allowed to stay there with Jules until they could find, if they could find, the parents. Around eleven forty-six on a Thursday evening, Warren Mitchell and his wife showed up at the radio station for their missing daughter. Their daughter had been at the station for a little over seven hours. A police officer followed in behind them, broad shouldered and severe looking.

Jules had been packing up and getting ready to switch shifts with another intern. She had been set on a couch to wait with Jules' old mp3 player while Jules cleaned up, and she was trying her hardest not to fall asleep. It was way passed her bedtime. She rubbed at her eyes tiredly as one song ended and a new song began playing quietly in her ears.

The door opened and her father stepped through looking for her. She perked up immediately, pulling out the headphones from her ears and stuffing them in her pocket. "Daddy?" She got up and wobbled a little bit, before bolting over to her father and wrapping her arms around his legs in a hug. Warren had just started to lean down to hug her back when her mother followed Warren through the door. She broke stepped away from him. "Momma!" Her mother scooped her up as she came flying at her. Her mother patted her on the back and held her awkwardly before setting her back down.

"These are your parents, Rebeca?" The police officer sneered at them, glaring at the older Mitchell's and not looking to her as he asked. She was not the target of his judgment.

She couldn't recognize the scorn in his voice as she excitedly answered anyway, "Yes! That's my mommy and daddy!"

Warren ignored the officer and looked around the towering shelves filled with music, the soft sound left over from Jules' playlist playing over the sound system. He scoffed at the room and kneeled down on the ground in order to level with his daughter. "How did you end up here, Rebeca?" He was genuinely confused. He'd thought his wife put her to bed hours ago. His wife, meanwhile, thought she spent the day with him. Neither realized she wasn't at home until the police knocked on their door. She wouldn't have eaten anything that day if it weren't for Jules.

Beca took a large breath. "Momma told me to go outside and play," she said with wide eyes. "I got lost."

Warren shook his head disdainfully before standing up and looking over at his wife, who looked back at him with the same expression. The officer looked between the two and sighed. He could feel the tension that was rising.

Jules walked over, having been watching the scene from afar, with a bag thrown over a shoulder.

Her parents were arguing now; with each other and with the officer. No one else noticed Jules. Jules looked down at her, smiling that smile, and she grinned back at the taller girl. "Gonna be alright, kiddo?" Jules asked playfully.

"Yeah," she yawned heavily. There were purple bags under her eyes.

Jules leaned down and pulled her into a strong hug, supporting and comforting her. Jules pulled back. "Now you go home and get some sleep. And don't be afraid to ever come back, alright?" she ordered.

Beca nodded seriously and Jules ruffled her hair.

"Alright then, I'm gonna go. Goodnight kid."

"Good night Jules."

After Jules left, the radio station filled with the sounds of a different intern's music. Her parents stopped arguing when the intern came out from the booth asking them to leave, the police officer shepherding them out the door, through the lobby, and outside. It was around midnight when they finally brought her home.

Her mother immediately stormed off once they pulled into the driveway of their apartment complex. She had been dozing the entire ride home, so Warren carried her upstairs. The door to her parents room was shut tight as they passed it. Warren knew he'd be sleeping on the couch that night. He brought her to her room, slipped off her sneakers and tucked her in. Kissing her on her forehead, he told her, "Sweet dreams, Rebeca."

"Beca," she mumbled quietly. "It's Beca."

That night she dreamed of music, and the next morning she found Jules' mp3 player still snug in her back pocket.

Social services investigated her family for a while after that. They asked her questions, which she answered in that honest, earnest ways that children have. They asked her parents questions too; why she wasn't enrolled in the campus' student run nursery, or with a babysitter, or being watched by her mother.

College professor's salary, they can't afford it- she's being homeschooled- and she does have babysitters- there's no time for them to keep an eye on her-

That's how they answered.

She tells them her parents are very nice people, when they ask, though they work a lot. They're never mean to her.

Social services decided that a college campus is no place to raise a four year old with two working parents (because her mother lied about having a job), especially if said four year old is basically running around on her own. As a result, they move to Atlanta a few weeks later, though her father keeps the apartment on campus for the nights he has late lectures.

She never sees Jules again.

Her parents' arguing gets worse over time, and there aren't any college students tutoring her now. Nor is there a campus so large and exciting for her to explore. Her new backyard is small, cramped. The grass is shriveled and a large, splintery fence surrounds it. Her father homeschools her when he has the time, and he keeps a close eye on her when he's home. He doesn't want her to get lost again. And though she asks and asks, he maintains his stance that music is a bad influence on children. He doesn't know she's kept Jules' mp3 player. Her mom's old phone charger works as a duel charger for the player, when it runs out of battery. She'll sit on the roof of their house and listen to it when he isn't home. She thinks she's memorized every song on there before she discovers another playlist, sometimes, and she'll listen when her neighbors' son plays with his band. She decides that she wants to make music, too.

There are a couple kids down the street that she plays with every now and again, but they go to public school. They're not very close. She feels awkward playing with them.

Her mother stays on a computer, gambling online, for hours on end most days. The woman tries to go out and drink with her girl friends when Warren's home. They can't stand to be in the same room together for long. Their arguments get worse.

One time it's about socks.

And then it's about her.

The words they said still hurt.

She blocked it out.

Warren works more and more; starts coming home later. She doesn't spend much time with them anymore, but whenever Warren is home he'll tuck her in and tell her a story goodnight.

Five years pass this way, with her mostly homeschooling herself and occasionally playing with the kids down the street. By the time she turns eight, she doesn't have much else to do but read the school books and do the work her father gives her, and learn whatever they teach when they have the time to teach her. She doesn't know she's small for her age. Her sense of adventure's not so exciting anymore. The world's much less interesting, dimmer, since they moved to this new neighborhood in Atlanta. But she likes the magic in music. It's something that'll always be interesting.

On her ninth birthday, her parents have their largest argument as of yet.

This one terrifies her. She plugs her mp3 player into her ears and drowns out their voices as best as she could. They've forgotten it's her birthday, but that's alright. She knows that adults can sometimes get distracted with each other. Rebeca falls asleep that way.

The next day her parents don't speak at all. Her father doesn't go to work, her mother locks herself in their room with her computer and a bottle of vodka. Warren locks himself in the study with his books. She sits in her room, the player tucked under her pillow, and works on multiplication. She gets her food herself. They still don't remember that it was her birthday the day before. She doesn't get cake or a card, or happy birthday exclamations, or even a smile. The kids down the street don't know it's her birthday, the day before, either.

That night she tucks herself into bed and waits for her father to come and tell her a story. Throughout the years, that's always been their thing. He never shows that night.

Nor any of the nights following. Or weeks. Or months.

He never reads a story to her again.

Warren's been gone later, her mother's been drinking more, and they've been arguing more intensely than ever before. It's one day, just after Warren stormed out after one of their arguments, that a blond woman knocks on their front door. The woman giggles good naturedly when her mother answers it. "You must be Warren's sister! I'm so pleased to finally meet you! I know we haven't met yet, but I'm Warren's girlfriend Sheila." Her mother stares blankly at the other woman. The woman, Sheila, babbles on, oblivious, "I work with Warren, you know, that's how we met. When he stayed at my place last night, he left some of his things behind." Sheila full-out grins. "I just thought I'd stop by to drop them off. Is he home?"

Her mother slams the door shut with a tightlipped, blanched face and fists shaking. Through the window, Beca sees the other woman blink for a moment, stunned. The other woman looks down at her phone, as if to double-check something she was sure about. Sheila walks away, back to a sparkly red Ford, with that same confused attitude. It's another hour before Warren comes home to utter silence. This scares her more than their arguments do. They don't talk at all. Warren's jaw is clenched.

Her mother wakes her in the middle of the night. She's told to pack a bag. She wipes away the sleep and does as she's told, somewhat excited. It's the first time in forever that her mother's wanted to do something with her in a long while. Three suitcases and one bag full of necessities later; she's standing in her pj's and hastily throwing on a hoodie when she realizes that Warren hasn't packed anything. Her dad has to come with. She finds him in the study, head in his hands, bowed over his desks. One of her mother's whiskey bottles sits next to him.

"Dad?"

He looks at her from under his fingers, eyes bloodshot, with something like contempt.

Her throat closes up as she feels tears rising to the surface, she's not sure if she wants to cry. She swallows that feeling down.

"Daddy?"

"...Get out." he croaks, closing his eyes as if he couldn't stand to look at her as he takes a swig from the bottle of whiskey. He drinks it as if it's the elixir of life.

"Wh- What?"

"GET OUT! I SAID GET OUT!" he roars as he shoves his chair back, enraged, and stands. "GET OUT OF THIS ROOM! GET OUT OF MY LIFE! GET AWAY FROM ME! GET OUT!" There's a crash as the bottle of whiskey comes sailing into the door next to her head. She violently flinches backward. She whimpers, and he stops for a moment. It's almost as if she's his little girl again when she whispers, "Daddy?" He looks devastated for a moment, looking at her as if he'd never see her again. Regretful. Pained. "Get out." he says. He can't look at her anymore, "Go." She backs away, slowly, fearfully. "Go..."

And she runs. Runs. Runs to her mother who's waiting for her in a rusty Buick with the engine running. The door slams shut behind her. She doesn't stop thinking about his last words to her until they get to Portland, and even then they're playing over again in her dreams.

That's the year her parents get a divorce. The year she stops hearing from her father and her mother turns her life around.

Once they've settled in with her grandmother in Portland, she gets a laptop, a skateboard, and music lessons as consolation gifts.

And she's enrolled in a public school.

She thinks she likes Portland better.

* * *

><p>Meanwhile, a very different girl did attend preschool. A private preschool. Just outside of Orlando, Florida. The same one her five older siblings had attended before her, and the same private preschool her younger brother would be attending after her. Her parent's can afford it... but she went there three years ago. Chloe's not a preschooler anymore. She's proud to say that she's the tallest in her second grade class.<p>

The youngest middle child in her family, Chloe's been making friends and coming home to her doting and attentive parents and more-than-likely crazy siblings for years. Her parents still make time for her, despite their six other children and despite their jobs, which she's grateful enough for. Chloe was raised in a loud family, everyone speaking over each other. She was taught to be open and affectionate. Every day her parents and siblings tell her they love her, in actions if not through words. She knows that they'll always be there for her if she needs it.

So she doesn't really understand the concept of shy.

As a second grader now, she has a lot of friends. She wants to let everyone she possibly can know that it doesn't matter who they are, she's happy they're there, and she can be their friend if they want. In that endeavor, Chloe would consider herself successful if it wasn't for one other girl in her class.

Aubrey Posen.

They don't get along, to say the least. But Chloe wants to.

The private school in which they're both enrolled requires its kindergarten to fifth grade students to take choir. Chloe is overjoyed with this. She loves to sing, and, better yet, it seems like Aubrey Posen does too. Aubrey doesn't talk to her when they're in choir class together, though. She thinks Aubrey needs a friend.

It was just after their second grade recital. Her parents were so proud and happy for her; all her siblings had cheered her on. They were going out for a celebratory dinner afterwards. Chloe really had to go to the bathroom, so her parents told her to go before they left. When she got there she noticed that one of the stalls was shut, and there were shoes peeking out from beneath the stall door, but there were no sounds coming from it of anyone actually being in there. She bit her lip- she had an empathetic feeling that something was wrong- and knocked on the door.

"What?" the high trill of a little girl's voice barked. Chloe recognized it.

"Aubrey," she asked, concerned. "Are you okay?"

Aubrey hastily wiped at her eyes. "Yes," Aubrey mechanically stated. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

It was a moment before Aubrey replied, breathing sharply. "I'm fine," she repeated like the ting of metal. Her voice was hard and resounding, just to get the other girl to walk away.

Chloe bit her lip again. "I don't think you are," Chloe stated matter of factually. "I'm coming in."

Aubrey blinked, "Wha- Wait!- what?!" But in a beat Chloe had slipped into the other girl's bathroom stall from under the door and stood next to her. Aubrey immediately shrieked- "What are you doing!? You're not supposed to go into someone else's bathroom while it's _occupied!_ I'm _using_ this stall."

Chloe looked at her confusedly, "What? My mother never told me that! She said to share! Are you sure?"

Aubrey paused, "Are you being serious right now?"

Chloe cheekily grinned, "Dixie chick serious." She crossed her fingers behind her back obviously, knowing the other girl could see.

Aubrey just face palmed, "Ugh, get out of my stall. It's crowded in here."

"_Two's_ company," Chloe argued. "_Three's _a crowd."

Aubrey was getting frustrated again. This unorthodox girl crawled into her stall, when she herself had just come in here to lock the door and cry so no one would see, and wouldn't leave. Her face was screwing up again, and she knew the tears would start falling. She didn't want the other girl to see her crying, so she turned around.

"Hey," Chloe grabbed Aubrey's shoulder softly and spun her around. "It's okay-" She pulled her into a hug. "It's okay."

Aubrey tried to push her away at first, but it was a cramped bathroom stall and she really needed some comfort right then. Rather than pull back like she had first fought to do, she ended up clinging to Chloe fiercely as she bawled her eyes out. "It's okay."

She wasn't sure how, but she found herself spilling everything to Chloe.

"My- My father- He was supposed to be here! He said that he would be here! He told me that he would be here! But- but he never came," Aubrey cried, uselessly she felt but she couldn't help it, into Chloe's shoulder. "He told me that he would be here, and I worked so hard just so he could hear me sing, and he's not here and my mom's working and I've been here all day so I don't even have a ride home-

"I worked so hard to be the best that I could be. I wanted him to hear me sing. He told me he would be here, bu- but he's not. He's never here, what am I supposed to do?"

Chloe gently pulled back as Aubrey finished babbling. She tore away some toilet paper and handed it to Aubrey, who promptly blew her nose and threw the offending tissue in the toilet. Chloe handed her another piece, and she wiped her eyes. "It's okay," Chloe assured her. "It's going to be fine, c'mon."

Chloe opened the stall door and tugged Aubrey out after her. She brought her to the sink so the other girl could wash the tear stains out from around her eyes, before pulling a stumbling Aubrey out of the bathroom after her. Smiling, Chloe looked back and said, "It's okay, I have an idea. Come on-"

It was strange, Aubrey had never even been nice to this girl, but she felt reassured.

And she wasn't quite sure how Chloe was able to do it, but Chloe dragged her over to the older Beale's who smiled kindly down at her and talked them into driving Aubrey home. It was fine with the Beale's, but they had the littlest Posen call her parents to make sure it was okay with them first. It was a brief call, one in which her father minutely apologized for not attending the recital due to some business client or other showing up at work, and gave her what she interpreted to be his acceptance for her to ride home with the Beale's. She hung up and gave Mrs. Beale's cell phone back to her with a respectful, "Thank you." After which she explained the call and Chloe cheered aloud, overjoyed, at the news that her dad said that it was alright. Aubrey had second thoughts at first when she realized how many Beale's there were. The two parents, plus their six children (not including Chloe). They were somehow able to fit everyone into a large van somewhat illegally. Aubrey stared wide-eyed at the scene. She sat between Chloe and the second oldest of the Beale children in the very back. Everything was loud and hectic, wild and cheery. She wasn't sure how quite to take it all in.

And, of course, on the way home all the Beale's stopped out for dinner like they were planning to originally. It was at some large and fancy restaurant that none of them were dressed appropriately enough to attend. Aubrey wasn't going to order anything; she didn't feel right to in a place that looked like it cost boatloads of cash. But, and it was strange, when she pushed the menu away Chloe looked right over at her with those happy, glowing, inviting blue eyes and shoved the menu right back at her. Then she said, "There's no point in that, Bree. You're an honorary Beale, now." She smiled, "You're family. We take care of family." Aubrey full-blown smiled right back at her, and she felt like she was actually a part of something she hadn't been a part of for years.

Chloe, conversely, was glad to have finally made a friend out of Aubrey Posen. She had a feeling that they were going to be best friends for a very long time. The best of friends.

From that point on, singing becomes something that they do. It becomes their thing. They both love it. Aubrey might've stopped had her father ever told her to, but he believed that it built character to have some outside, challenging stimulant. There was also the fact that he was secure in the idea that it wouldn't distract her from her studies; she was going to be a lawyer someday. One of the big leagues. The Beale's were always supportive. When Aubrey's father couldn't or didn't show, they would give her rides. And it didn't even matter if it was from or to concerts or rehearsals, or to or from debate club or track meets, or wherever, they were always there, cheering her and Chloe on. She always paid that respect back; showing up with the rest of the Beale's for any of their children's games or competitions of whatnot. She truly did become family.

For Chloe, singing was the only thing other than her electric blue eyes that differentiated her from the rest of the Beale's (they all had green- she got the blue from a great aunt on her mother's side). It was her thing, and she was glad she could have someone who she could share that with. Aubrey became like her sister. Their attitudes differed, but they shared everything with each other. All their secrets and stresses and likes and dislikes.

They both tried out for choir in sixth grade, and their respective parents paid for private singing lessons. By that point in time, they could read sheet music perfectly, and knew the full range of their vocals.

Sometimes, though, it feels like singing is the only thing that connects the two together. While Aubrey just sings because it's a great way to express herself, and an enjoyable hobby, Chloe loves music like life itself. Anything and everything music; and, though they've sometimes doubted why they're even friends, they've been friends for so long that by that point in time their dynamic just works. It also wouldn't be a lie to say that Chloe's passion for singing rubs off of Aubrey, too, until she possibly loves it just as much as Chloe does.

Aubrey's not one for all the mushy-gushy feelings, but even she's pretty sure they'll be friends for life. Sisters (although it's not like Chloe doesn't have enough).

And Chloe's almost annoyingly persistent enough for that to be true.

Singing was what connected them as friends, and even now, it's enough.

It'll always be enough.

Except...

It'll never be enough.

It might never be enough.

* * *

><p><strong>A.N.<strong>

**Okay, so I'm not going to lie. I'm really bad with writing multi-chapter fics. Like, seriously, terrible. If you think this is good enough that you want to keep reading, I need to know and I need to be encouraged- otherwise, I might not write at all. I lose interest in writing it if I think other people aren't interested. And though I'm serious about needing the support, please don't feel pressured to leave a comment. Just leave one if you really, honestly, like this enough. Leave what you think.**

**The plan is for this to be a three to five chapter fic, somewhat AU, somewhat dramatic.**

**This is just the establishing chapter; it builds on their characteristics. If you ever ask why a particular main character acts the way they do, you can look back on this to just be reminded. Sorry if it was at all confusing.**

**Totally know where all this is going, can't wait to write more. Please, pretty please, let me know what you think. Thanks-**


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO.**

**(I know, I know- I just keep on coming up with these brilliantly titled chapters. They're revolutionary, it's okay to be amazed. ^^ )**

* * *

><p><em>9 An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. <em>

_10 But the angel said to them, "Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people. __11 Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is the Messiah, the Lord. __12 This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger."_

_13 Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying, __14 "Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests."_

_-Luke 2: 9-14_

_The Bible_

* * *

><p>First day of college.<p>

As if Aubrey Posen could possibly deny Chloe Beale, they were roommates as well as long time friends.

Barden University wasn't such a bad place, Aubrey considered; a good school to attend in order to get a basic education before she goes back to a law school such as Harvard or Yale.

That's one of the things she told her father in order to get him to agree that attending Barden would be okay. It took some time, but he eventually did agree. This was a major relief for Aubrey. For some reason, she sincerely couldn't imagine spending the next few years at a college without Chloe. Perhaps it was crippling to a degree to depend on one person so much, but Chloe was her best friend. Chloe literally knew everything- she means everything- about her. Considering just what Chloe knew that no one else (save her father, of course) did, this was a big thing. The one, specific thing that no one else knew about was... well... To save face, she reacts rather badly when she's particularly nervous. It's unfortunate. To her, it's devastating; but Chloe knew enough about that one thing that she knew how to calm her down and help her. Aubrey is forever grateful to her for that.

This was another not-quite-worded-this-way reason that she gave to her father in order to attend Barden. Her... anxiety. And, as that thing she does is rather embarrassing for anyone to do, let alone a Posen, (her father was a very proud man) he wouldn't run the risk of letting her ruin their family name. After little more convincing, he agreed on the condition that she shape out of it before she graduated. Aubrey would be damned if she wasn't on time. Posen's are punctual. She'll figure it out.

Another reason she gave to the older Posen for "Why Barden" was that it was a laxer environment than either of them were used to, one in which they both knew obtained students who weren't as... educationally oriented as she was. Barden was rather liberal. It would be interesting to see if she could keep her head around these students with differentiating ideals. Plus, in the angle that she played, she was already set to rise up to the first of her class.

The card she played on was the Posen Pride, again.

It worked very nearly every time.

And the times that it didn't, well, then she knew there was no point in pressing the issue.

For a while as she was debating the issue with her father, she was concerned that there would be nothing she could do to change his mind. Her father can sometimes be a very difficult man to read. The thought of it almost gave her an anxiety attack. She really wasn't sure if she could handle a day without Chloe in her life, let alone four years- possibly more- in a strange place without knowing anyone. The two of them hadn't ever acknowledged openly the fact that they'd both thought they'd be friends for life. Neither had ever felt the need to before. Aubrey was sure that Chloe would be able to go on without her perfectly fine; Chloe wouldn't have panic attacks. It was just that, when push came to shove, she wasn't able to say the same thing.

Over the years Aubrey had adapted- come to depend on, even- Chloe's particular brand of affection. It grew to the point where she felt she'd spontaneously combust without one of her best friend's smiles flashing at her at least once that day; she needed them in order to make it through the week. They were the best of friends; so close that they were like sisters. Chloe might have a lot of siblings, and Aubrey might be an honorary Beale, but... she's not as close with anyone else as she is with one Chloe Beale. Chloe is her only "sister".

Aubrey had only ever started to think otherwise that first day of college.

It was so exciting and freeing for her to think that she was however many miles away from direct contact with her father. He, in Florida, and she, in Georgia. She felt like she was in a cage when she was around him. And even though she knew that it was up to her to make the decisions that would effect her future, that it was her choice and no longer her father's; even though she felt free of that cage, she still felt like she was in a fenced in yard. One with walls that stretched up forty feet high, with guards and towers and barbed wire at the top, and she was dragging around in chains.

They were unpacking their things at their on campus apartment- well, she was unpacking- with the CD player on loud. Chloe had slipped in a disk with some songs that she pulled offline. A song came on. She didn't think anything of it when Chloe blushed a scarlet red and excused herself to the bathroom.

Not having heard the toilet flush after a couple of minutes and figuring her friend to be still be busy, she walked into Chloe's bedroom to put a couple of her boxes in the closet and-

"What the hell, Chloe!?" Aubrey dropped the boxes, throwing her hands over her eyes and twisting around spastically.

Chloe fumbled with her clothes behind her, practically yelling a "Sorry! I'm sorry!" Aubrey felt Chloe's hand touch her shoulder and she startled, jumping away. The image of what she'd just seen was burning beneath her eyes.

"Don't touch me! Did you wash your hands?" There was a reason for Aubrey to ask; she knew where those hands were a second ago. Chloe should keep them to herself.

"No! I am so, so sorry Aubrey." And Aubrey knew she was. She could hear the sincerity in Chloe's embarrassed tone. "It's just-" Aubrey finally pulled her hands away from her eyes, just in time to see Chloe look at her in the reflection of the tall mirror that hung on the door with hungry, dark eyes. She wasn't sure if she wanted to know what was coming. "- that song does things to me." Aubrey swallowed.

"Okay, great! Just great! Lovely, even!" Her voice sounded overly happy and content; fake. "This was all about a song-" she wasn't sure what she meant by that statement. She stumbled out of the bedroom and to her room across the hall as Chloe watched her walk away. "- I'm just going to go and finish unpacking." Aubrey needed to be able to breathe. For once, she wasn't sure she'd be able to think clearly around Chloe. It confused her.

The final notes of David Ghetta's _Titanium_ were ringing throughout their apartment. They'd be sharing this space together for the next four years.

Aubrey shut her door.

Her face felt hot.

There were a few strands of her blond hair falling about her face, escaping the neat bun she'd tied her hair in earlier that day. She couldn't get the image out of her mind of a blissfully unaware Chloe sprawled across her bed, moaning with a hand between her legs.

Something about their friendship had just changed for good. Aubrey tried to write the feeling off.

Half an hour after the incident, Chloe knocked on her bedroom door, "Aubrey?" She tried not to envision Chloe calling her name out quite differently. Aubrey didn't swing that way. "I'm going to go to the commons," Chloe said, her voice faint through the door. "They've got some kind of an activity fair going on!" Aubrey was already moving to the door to join her, but she couldn't get her mind out of the gutter. "Wanna come?"

Her mind immediately went to the place that she was trying to forget, and she blushed profusely.

It took her a moment to clear her voice enough for her to call back a squeaky, "No!" She took a breath, telling herself to Posen up. Just act normally. "No," she repeated steadier this time. "I'm just going to keep on unpacking everything. You go and have fun. Let me know when you're on the way back and I'll order some pizza, okay?"

"Okay," Chloe answered. "If you're sure..."

"I'm sure."

Aubrey was nothing but certain.

After Chloe left, Aubrey opened the door to her room to head to unpack stuff throughout the rest of the apartment. She avoided the bedrooms.

It took a few hours, but she finally got that image of Chloe out of her mind. She was humming the opening bars to _Girls Just Wanna Have Fun_ when Chloe burst back into their apartment excitedly, waving around a flyer. She didn't call ahead of time.

"Aubrey! Aubrey! Guess what?" Chloe was just like an adorable little kid, bouncing around like someone gave her a piece of candy. "I signed us up for a cappella auditions! We're going to be Bellas!" Chloe cheered.

Aubrey couldn't say no, only smile fondly at Chloe at the news. She loved to sing with Chloe. Music was their thing. Chloe hugged her excitedly in one of the famous Beale hugs, and she rested her cheek against Chloe's head. Her nose caught an intoxicating scent and she breathed in deeply. Chloe.

* * *

><p>By this point in time, Beca was a sophomore in high school. As it happened, her mother had turned her life around. The responsibility of being a single mother taking care of a teenage daughter and an elderly woman on her own must've gotten to her, as she'd gotten a job in order to care for them; both herself, her mother, and Beca. She'd gotten a job as a guidance councilor at the local high school. Beca's high school. As such, she was the first to get the call whenever Beca messed up.<p>

Such as today. Ms. Taylor- as she'd reverted back to her maiden name- got a call from the principal about her daughter involving Beca's actions in the cafeteria the prior lunch period. She sighed, rubbing her forehead in exasperation. It's times like these that she really wishes she hadn't left her alcohol back in Atlanta. She'd been sober for six years now. She'd left the alcohol behind with Warren.

There was a knock on the door to her office. "Come in," she called out. She knew who was there. A disheveled looking Beca was escorted in by the vice principal, who took one last second to glare at the girl, and then promptly left. Beca smugly looked over her shoulder as the door slammed shut before looked back at her mother. Ms. Taylor took in her daughter's appearance. There was a bruise forming around her daughter's right eye, and a couple around her daughter's knuckles. Beca's shirt was torn at the neckline, but other than that she looked fine.

"Have a seat, Beca," and Beca knew that tone. She plopped down in a chair, avoiding her mother's eyes, and started picking at her nails absently. There was a brief moment where no one said anything. Her mother was trying to intimidate her. It wasn't going to work. Her mother was the one to break.

"Why'd you do it?" Ms. Taylor asked tiredly.

Beca found a hangnail on her middle finger. She wondered if she flipping her mother off would get rid of it. "Which part?" she smirked. "You're gonna have to be specific."

"Dammit Beca!" her mother slammed her hands on the desk, and Beca flinched at the sudden noise, meeting her mother's eyes for the first time since she stepped in the room. She doesn't like sudden, loud sounds unless they're coming from her headphones under the guise of music. She startles every time. "The part where you beat up three girls! Don't play coy with me, you know exactly what you did. Why'd you do it?"

"You're acting like I'm the one who threw the first punch," Beca sniped back, lip curling. She slouched lower in the chair and crossed her arms. It was anything but comfortable. The chair groaned under her weight, dipping down to the point where Beca thought that if she moved the wrong way, it might break. It was the chair that countless other students in her same position sat in before her. She wonders how the faculty can afford to buy new office chairs for themselves every year, but not new chairs for the office for their students.

"Maybe not," her mother said angrily. Her mother had a cup full of pens that Beca wanted to tip over to ruin the orderliness of her mother's desk. "But you'll be lucky if we don't get sued. You broke a girl's arm today, and another girl's nose."

As Beca thought back on the incident, she really wanted to tip over that cup, she growled bitterly, "It was self defense." By that point in time, it was, anyway. "They were bullying one of the freshmen for being gay. I stepped in, they didn't appreciate it, and they turned their attack on me. They got what they deserved." Her eyes were flashing as she remembered the look on Lisa's face: the freshmen looked horrified. Terrified. Embarrassed. It was pure fear, and something tugged at the three-sizes-too-small heart within Beca. She may be small, but she was a force to be reckoned with. "They outted her, mom," Beca said quietly. "Lisa didn't deserve that. I don't think she was ready." Another moment, Beca didn't feel like she should explain herself, "I just wanted to help her out."

Her mother sighed, face relaxing into something like sympathy. "Beca," she began. "It was very noble of you to try and stop it, but you shouldn't have stepped in. You should've gotten a teacher, or me-"

"And what would you have done?" Beca burst out hotly, gritting her teeth. "Send Lisa to the nurse with the promise that it'll get better? Give a detention to those girls and make them swear to never do it again? Because that'll work _real _well." She looked back down at her hands and stared at her purple knuckles. The ache in them wasn't so bad. Nothing she couldn't handle. If she was the type to wear rings, they probably would've done more damage when she punched that girl in the face. She starts to consider it. "At least now they'll know not to do it again..."

The 'or else' hung off the end of that sentence, dangling somewhere in the air between them.

"Lisa is well aware of the ramifications of her actions; she knew what could happen. You shouldn't have-"

"Do you think she _chose _to be this way? That she had a _choice? _She's _gay, _mom. It's not like she went to a Quick-Mart gas station, saw a rainbow colored carton behind the drug counter, and thought, 'Hmm, well I was looking for something new and addicting to try. Let's buy that carton and go gay-'" her nails dug into her palms. Her mother was staring down at her questioningly, and she felt the need to defend herself. "I'd do it again." She smirked wickedly, "Today was self-defense. It just so happened to be that it was also classical conditioning." Bullying gay girls would have consequences. Hell, bullying would have consequences. School rules allowing, or no.

They were silent for a moment, neither of them speaking. Ms. Taylor was contemplating something, trying to get up the courage to ask her daughter. "Beca," she hesitantly began, not sure if she was crossing a line. "Is there something you want to tell me?" i.e. _Are you gay?_

Beca carefully looked back over at her mother, beginning to pick at her cuticles again, "No. There's nothing." _No, I'm not._

Her mother eyed her, looking for some hint as to what that undertone in Beca's voice meant. Her eyes trailed off her daughter's form and down to the folder on her desk. It was getting rather large, and numerous papers were poking out of it none too neatly (she'd been looking through it, and planned on organizing it later). She'd been getting a lot of complaints lately from her daughter's teachers about Beca's homework assignments. Apparently, she never turned them in.

She looked back at her daughter. Ms. Taylor didn't think of herself as one of those mother's- the type to over idolize their child's abilities, and often over compensate for them- but she knew her daughter and what Beca was capable of. She'd helped Warren tutor her for years, after all. She knew that children didn't just become lazy one day, despite what many of her colleagues thought. Her daughter had a brilliant mind. She could quite literally see the gears whirling around in her daughter's eyes as they looked boldly back at her, calculating.

Chances are that if her daughter wasn't snarking on her homework, that it wasn't handed in.

And it was strange. She knew her daughter did the work. It was something the three of them did at home; her, her mother, and her daughter. The three of them sat around the kitchen table late at night reading a book or working until someone went off to bed. Beca did all the work. She studied. And, as she was Beca's mother, she's seen the work her daughter does sitting in a pile in Beca's bedroom perfectly correct. Beca just doesn't hand it in.

And as a result, Beca's just barely passing. She's failing a couple of her classes. The only one she's getting any sort of remarkable grade in is band (Beca's a wonderful pianist), and she doesn't know why.

She knows that Beca never does anything without a reason. Beca's very deliberate about her actions, so she wonders why her daughter would want to barely pass her sophomore year. This is where the disagreement with her colleagues came in. Laziness, they said, but she wouldn't be a mother nor a guidance councilor if she thought of something like this so lightly. She was sure that if she were to ask, Beca give her some answer like, "I have better things to do."

Ms. Taylor had a theory though.

She and her daughter have never really spoken about personal things, but she thinks that Beca's grades have something to do with her trying to be as different from her father as capably possible. Frankly, she couldn't blame her daughter for that. And if her daughter wasn't interested in other girls... then maybe the fight earlier has something to do with her father too. She'd have to approach this slowly, though, carefully. This was a problem that she needed to fix. She pulled the papers out of Beca's file on her desk and shuffled them together, regaining her daughter's attention.

"Did you beat up those other girls because of Warren, Beca? How do you feel about your father?"

The door slammed shut as Beca stormed out, muttering an "Oh my God" on the way.

Maybe she didn't approach the topic slowly enough. She sighed again. She really wants a drink.

The freshmen Beca helped earlier was waiting in the hall outside for her, and when Beca walked out she stood up. There weren't any words said. No hugs or high fives. The two had never spoken before earlier today, and they weren't planning on speaking afterwards. The girl just nodded at Beca her thanks, the two locking eyes for a moment. Beca nodded back and walked off down the hall. Her eye was starting to get swollen. She wasn't going to see the nurse. It'd be fine.

A few months pass and it's December. It'd snowed outside the night before. Beca, her mother and her grandmother are sitting together in the living room. It's Christmas.

Beca never tells her mother what she wants anymore for the holidays. She hasn't made a list since she was five and told her parents that Santa can shove it if she had to bake one more cookie for a holiday in which the economy thrived on charging hundreds of taxpayers their well earned money in order to buy an ugly sweater that throughout that particular season costs a cheap fortune, under the guise of Christmas cheer and good intentions. Oh, and then she mentioned she hates Christmas. And that she knew Santa Claus was a fraud. She told them not to waste their time with cookies as Santa wouldn't be coming down the chimney that year.

She was being tutored by a student who was majoring in marketing at the time. He was a realist.

Her parents were both astounded by her revelation and appalled. At the time, her mother was just happy to drop the flour and crack open a bottle of champagne. Warren cracked open the spine of _A Christmas Carol_ and read quietly to himself.

Running the risk of being too punny, Beca had always been a smart cookie.

Since then, when asked what she wanted for Christmas, she's said a gift card to Taco Bell, an iTunes gift card, or nail polish.

Once Ms. Taylor had left Warren, though, she's felt like she needed to make it up to her daughter. She has yet to find that one thing that'll make her daughter dip into the Christmas cheer. Her mother told her to just let Beca be, don't force her to love something she can't, but Ms. Taylor's determined to figure it out. She doesn't get Beca much, usually. Beca's a very simple girl. Skinny jeans, converse, and flannel. Always a gift card for iTunes (she draws the line at Taco Bell). Maybe a poster or two of her favorite band. Her mother's had to be a little more creative on her own in her attempts to get Beca a good gift. Her attempts don't usually work.

But then Beca let slip that she wanted to be a DJ. It wasn't on purpose. Beca had gotten up to help her grandmother with something in the other room. She'd left her laptop open on the table, along with her headphones. Ms. Taylor just happened to be passing by and noticed what was on the screen. A free, cheap and retro looking DJ program. She hadn't known her daughter to be into music that much. Then again, they never talk about anything. She realized how little she actually knew about her daughter's life. This course of thought took her back thinking about Warren. She felt guilty again; like she had more to make up to her daughter than she'd ever considered. She vowed to be a better mother.

There was some saying or other. How did it go? Something like "your measure of reliability comes not by your words but by your actions". If she wanted to change, she'd have to show it.

They have a running tradition of waking Beca up at three in the morning (if she isn't already up) and sitting in the living room and opening their presents beneath the tree on Christmas Day. They're not particularly religious, they don't go to church on Sundays or sing hymns or pray before eating dinner or anything, but Beca's grandmother grew up differently. Her grandmother wears a little cross on a chain around her neck, and always makes sure that one of them reads Luke 2: 1-20 before they open gifts; it's a passage in the _Bible _about Jesus' birth. Beca's not sure if she believes in a god. To her, the whole thing doesn't make much sense. She goes along with it anyway, though, because she likes the tradition and hearing the story.

It's just afterwards, when they're opening gifts and the lights from the Christmas tree are reflecting off of the wrapping paper and ribbons and bows, that Beca notices something quite large sitting behind the tree. One final present for her. Beca doesn't outwardly seem to care other than delicately removing the paper and setting it aside. When she opens it up, her face lights up in a smile and her mother knows that she's finally succeeded in getting her daughter into the Christmas spirit. She'd signed the gift "From Santa Claus", for the nostalgia, and it works.

Maybe Beca's father had never been one for the music industry; maybe he wouldn't support her in her current aim. At one point, Ms. Taylor might've been the same. Now, she had Beca's best interests at heart.

Beca's been using what she'd been given at Christmas nonstop since then, along with her beat up old laptop. She'd gotten a job three years ago working at a bakery with a balding old man and his niece. They gave her a handsome salary, which she wasn't ever going to argue with. She gets her paycheck every Tuesday; she cashes it at the bank as soon as she possibly can, and locks it away. She's been saving the money up in order to buy some proper mixing equipment, with a plan to use whatever was leftover to move to LA when she turns eighteen.

Her mother had given her a digital turntable controller, actual DJ software for her computer, and a mixer. Those were the necessities. She'd saved up enough money on her own from her job to buy some other, though maybe not so necessary, things: a new laptop, an electric keyboard, a microphone, and proper headphones to listen to the music when she works. As it turns out, her five year old self was wrong when she implied that Christmas cost a small fortune, because it cost an actual fortune. All of the cash she'd saved up to go to LA in a few years disappeared seemingly in an instant once she'd paid the cashier. It was just after the Christmas season, so the prices were still pretty high, but Beca couldn't wait to get started.

Maybe it was petty. A part of her felt like her mother was trying to buy her love, but another part of her wondered how her mother knew that she wanted to be a DJ. The latter told her that her mother was trying to reach out to her, that maybe her mother cared. She wasn't sure if that was something she was interested in reciprocating yet. However, it was definitely an effort that she appreciated. Maybe she could try and get along better with her mother.

Though DJ-ing is the goal, it's not something she's good at yet.

She recorded her own voice singing some song that was stuck in her head in order to play around with the programs and equipment. She wanted to figure out how everything worked. The sound of her voice playing back at her made her wince. She wasn't that great of a singer; not when compared to P!nk or Beyoncé, or any of the top players in the music industry really. It took some time and many mistakes before she finally got a hang of the systems. Beca doesn't let anyone listen to the mixes she makes.

Her grandmother dies the following year.

It wasn't as if she were particularly close to her, despite living together. Beca never really lets anyone get that close, but her grandmother had never seemed all that interested in getting close to her either. It was a mutual disinterest. Her mother's coworkers and her grandmother's bridge partner attend the funeral. They all stare at her like they're waiting for her to crack. She doesn't cry, though her mother does. Her principal, Mr. Ryan, moves to comfort her mother. He gives her a weird look, wondering why she isn't in the same state.

And it's not that she isn't saddened by her loss; it's more like, Beca knows that she needs to cry, that she needs to get her emotions and frustrations out- because she's sure she feels them and she knows that she'll miss her grandmother despite whatever nonexistent relationship they had throughout the past few years- but she's numb. All those emotions are dulled down. It's almost as if there are two people inhabiting her body. She's one of the people, she's Beca, and the person standing there watching as the dirt fills her grandmother's grave is another. A stranger in her body. If that makes any sense. She wonders who will ask her to read about Jesus' birth at Christmas, if anyone will ask her. So, she doesn't cry.

Not then, anyway.

Still, it was just her and her mother now. Even with one less person gone, their house was a lot emptier. After the funeral, things took a turn for the worse. The whole routine that they developed reminded her of when she was little and her parents fought or avoided each other whenever they were together. They started to argue. When they weren't arguing, Beca retreated into her music and work at the bakery like her mother retreated back into her alcohol.

She thinks it's funny in that way that's not funny at all how alcoholics think they're being so sneaky about drinking. It's really hard to hide that smell in their breath, their bloodshot, watery eyes, the way they stagger around when their drunk. Beca wakes up to the sound of her mother throwing up in the bathroom down the hall, or to the sound of glass bottles clinking against one another. Her mother hides them in the closet in her room. So much for her sobriety.

Her mother starts to not speak to her at all.

Ms. Taylor's colleagues don't assume that anything's wrong. They don't question her behavior. Ms. Taylor'd just lost her mother, after all, and Beca was a troublesome child. They presume her to be the cause of her mother's problems. As a result of Ms. Taylor's noticeable distress, her teachers are harder on her. She gets detentions weekly, is often called after class. She walked down the hall to find the vice principal and two policemen searching her locker. They took her backpack. They forced her to have a drug test, and gave her dirty looks when it came back clean. She'd gotten suspicious looks from her teachers when she aced her exams. People avoided her in the halls. Beca only ever got along with her band teacher, now.

Any hope she'd have of her mother actually caring completely disappeared. She wondered how she could've ever thought that it was possible. She got a tattoo on her wrist of a grasshopper; she thought it was very representational of her life, but that was only the first of many. She also started putting on her eyeliner a little heavier, and got her ears pierced again. It made her stand out. It made her look tough.

She decided that since people already seemed to think the worst of her, she was going to live up to that in appearance. Why should she argue with something she didn't really care to change? It kept people away.

Today she'd gotten accused of cheating by her English teacher. They'd finished "reading" _The Great Gatsby _in class the other day. It was the last book that they'd be reading in class together this year, and as a result there was one final project. When she'd handed her project in, her teacher couldn't understand how she could possibly know so much about the book when she'd barely been paying attention at all. She hadn't thought to mention that she used to attend her father's lectures.

The teacher gave her three detentions with a possible in-school suspension and sent her down to her mother's office.

She rolled her eyes, but complied.

Her mother's door wasn't locked, so she didn't knock on it; she walked right in and immediately regretted it. Her mother and Mr. Ryan were having sex on the desk. Beca didn't bother sticking around to hear their explanations, she left the school.

When her mother came home, they argued.

Her mother blamed her for her divorce with Warren, for having to pack up their lives and move to an entirely new state. She was blamed for her grandmother's death; called an emotionless monster who had wanted her grandmother to die. She was blamed for her mother's misery; she never did what she was told and always had some wise-ass comment to make. She was also yelled at for walking in on her mother and her principal at school, interrupting them when something good was finally happening in her mother's life. She deserved the detentions she got. She was a waste of whiskey money.

She was called a useless, no good, deadbeat parasite of a daughter. But, most of all, it was her fault that her mother was having money problems.

It was then that she learned that her grandmother must've at least loved her a little, because their money problems stemmed from a fact that she hadn't known about before her mother thought to let her know. Her grandmother didn't include her mother in her will. When she died, she gave all her worldly possessions- all her money, her car, the house they lived in, and everything in it- to Beca: who would officially own these items when she comes to the age of twenty-one. Her mother didn't get one lick.

Beca shut down at the information. On the inside, there was a part of her that was elated at the news. It would be quite a few years until it was actually hers, but she could sell it all and have money for LA. She locked herself in her room with her music. She couldn't stand to be around her mother. She couldn't wait until she was able to leave. She was so tired of this. She'd much rather just be alone. They steadily avoided each other for the next two years. It was easy. They came home, and they went to different rooms. On the weekends, her mother owned the house during the day, and Beca had the house during the night. That's when they'd be in their rooms.

She didn't bother to come home at all when her mother had Mr. Ryan over. She didn't want to know what those two would be doing. Instead, she would take her grandmother's white Lincoln continental out, park it in the lot at the bakery she worked at, and stay the night in the car with the doors locked and a bottle of pepper-spray sitting in the console next to her. It wasn't exactly comfortable, but it worked.

Beca was a senior now, would be turning seventeen in a week. Not that it really mattered. It was just another day, and it was another year closer to her moving to LA.

Everything was normal about it. She was in her room with the door cracked and the shades drawn, dim light leaking into the room through the window despite it, nestled in her bed and ready to finally go to sleep. It was around five in the morning on a Sunday. She wasn't planning on getting up any time soon. There were birds whistling outside.

The phone rang; a shrill, piercing sound that made her jump and caused a grumpy frown to appear on her face.

She didn't like sudden, loud sounds. She was trying to sleep.

She heard her mother muttering to herself as she got up to answer it, and then she heard her mother start to scream at the other person on the line. The call with whoever it was didn't last long. Beca fell asleep soon after. Just one more year to go.

* * *

><p><strong>A.N.<strong>

I started writing this chapter and got interrupted, so I lost my train of thought somewhere in the middle. I'm not sure how cohesive it all is- sorry if it's a little boring. O.o

Also, I'm beginning to think that this may end up being more than five chapters like I was originally planning to make it. My idea's been expanding and changing with every word that I write, and I got such a good reception with the first chapter that I'm a little excited about writing this. X) Can't wait to see how it all goes. Just a reminder, though, that I do need encouragement if I am to write: please leave a review and let me know what you think! Thank you, you lovely people ^^

Specific thanks to **mo11, Bechloe always, KingVSQueen, smw48910, Al, Guest, **and** Meg Rules **for all the lovely comments and encouragement! I honestly didn't think anyone would really leave a review, so thank you. X) I was kinda worried that I was all over the place... I'm glad you guys enjoyed it.

**Kween Of Thorn:** Totally going to be Beca with someone- I can't just leave her hanging! :) Let me know what you think the final pairing should be. No comment about Jules at this point; she may or may not make an appearance later. We'll see how it goes. And I completely agree with you about her father- I didn't want for him to actually go overboard and hit her, because it's not physical abuse that I'm writing about, but I still wanted him to seem overly upset and take it out on her. In the movie, Beca seems emotionally stunted. Here, I'm trying to cover a little bit of the "why". She never lets anyone get close to her because she always gets hurt. As for Aubrey and Chloe, well, you'll see where that's going. Thanks for the great review!

**TRUTH:** To be honest, I'm a total Bechloe diehard, so I'm seriously considering it. But I'm leaving my options open at this point. I want to see where this goes; how what I'm envisioning in my head's going to translate on the page. And, believe me, I could go on forever too- I really like what you said though. That's sort of the direction I'm heading in; Beca not being loved enough and Chloe loving more than anyone. I just had a much longer, all around way of saying it in my head, but that's much better. :) Thanks for the review!


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE.**

**(it's just- the names of these chapters! they're so beautiful... sniff...)**

* * *

><p><em>Yet if hope has flown away<em>

_In a night, or in a day,_

_In a vision, or in none,_

_Is it therefore the less gone?_

_All that we see or seem_

_Is but a dream within a dream._

_-Edgar Allan Poe_

_A Dream Within A Dream-_

* * *

><p>Sheila is a woman of principle; she believed that honesty should be the way one walks.<p>

She'd been with Warren for nine years now. She knew that he had faults (he was a man, after all). But she wouldn't be a woman of principle if she didn't accept them for what they were, and she wouldn't be a good wife if she didn't try to curb the worst of them.

She wasn't a homewrecker, though for a while she certainly felt like one. It was tough to believe that Warren lied to her, especially when she'd been beginning to think that he was _the one _when she'd found out. He'd been married for the first year that they'd started dating- and she hadn't known. She was told that he was living with his sister. It wasn't in her nature to distrust him. There was a brief period in the beginning, however, where she'd had some doubts. Turns out, those doubts were right. How could he have cheated on his wife? How could he have lied to her?

When he explained it- how his relationship with his wife could no longer be called a relationship, how his wife ignored him and drank or gambled their savings away, how his wife treated him when he was home- she understood his reasoning a little better. Make no mistake that she'd forgiven him, she hadn't, but she understood. People are made to be loved. There's only so much loneliness one can take before they learn to adapt, or before they react. As much as she loved the man, she couldn't help wondering if he'd cheat on her, too.

When he asked if things were okay between them, if she'd continue to be his girlfriend, she asked for some time; a break while he got his divorce papers settled and she could think things out for herself.

God, she was _the other_ woman.

How hadn't she known?

A few months and one faculty-staff appreciation day later, and they'd gotten back together. She still felt terrible that she was the cause that destroyed Warren's marriage, but it was heading towards divorce anyway, the way that Warren told it.

They'd been together another three years before he proposed.

It was a total of nine years to the day his wife left him when she'd found it.

Would an omission of truth be considered a lie?

It hurt like one.

While he was sleeping, she put on a pot of coffee and washed a load of laundry from the day before. She found his wallet in the back pocket of one of his dress pants, pulled it out so it wouldn't go into the wash, and set it on the edge of the machine until she finished. The moment she shut the door, pressed go, and the machine started to shake as it washed, the wallet fell open on the ground.

When Sheila picked it up, there was a picture of a little girl carefully preserved behind a thin sheet of clear, synthetic plastic.

No more than three or four with dark, indecipherable eyes much like Warren's and rich, earthy brown hair. The girl's features were reserved, and sharp- more serious than a girl her age should be- yet a little smile played at the corners of her lips. A Mona Lisa smile that made her wonder what secrets the girl was hiding.

One could imagine, then, how curious Sheila was. Wouldn't you be if you could see the resemblance in a little girl's picture to the man you were married to? She sat down at the island counter she had in their kitchen, sipping quietly on her coffee, as she observed the wallet. She didn't go through it, just pondered at the little girl and wondered if she should ask. The question in her mind wasn't if Warren was lying to her, but if he had just never told her something she, as his wife, should've known and if would it be an invasion of privacy to ask. She was sure he had a reason why he didn't tell her about whoever this little girl was. Maybe he'd lost her. Maybe she was a little sister, or cousin, or his niece-

"That's my daughter," his voice broke in behind her. "Rebeca."

Warren stood there, rubbing the back of his head sleepily, as he looked down at the open wallet on the counter. It'd been years since he'd actually looked at that picture. The sides were worn in, the photograph wrinkled and faded. He walked over and sat down next to her, "She'd just turned four when we took it."

Her eyes searched his, but he still gazed down at the photograph, drinking the image in. "Rebeca would be about seventeen now... Her birthday's next week."

The way he spoke, Sheila assumed the worst. "Is she... ?"

His eyes snapped up, hectic and frightened at the thought, "No! No. I just..." His eyes drifted back down to the picture. "I was never the father I should've been."

Sheila's jaw tightened as she realized that the girl was still alive. Warren had a daughter whom he'd never thought to mention to his wife of nine years. While that made her angry, it wasn't that factor that made her outraged. She just needed to clarify. "So, your daughter is still alive?" Warren nodded. "Still breathing?" Again. "Still walking, and talking?" Hesitantly. "When was the last time you've seen her, Warren?"

His silence answered her, and she blew up.

"You mean to say that you have a seventeen year old daughter whom you haven't spoken to in nine years?!"

His eyes glazed over as her thought back to that night and the look on his daughter's face, "She hasn't wanted to see me."

"And you know this how?" Sheila questioned, still enraged. Warren shrugged. "God, Warren, have you even tried to call her?" He looked away again, and she threw her hands up in the air, letting out a loud, angry huff. "You're a father first. Then a husband. Then a man. Grow a pair and start acting like one." She stalked over to the house phone, picked it up, and slammed it down on the counter next to the still open wallet. Beyond annoyed, she questioned, "Do you know their number, or do you need me to do that for you too?" She didn't wait for his answer and stomped off, she paused for a moment as she realized something. "She's my step-daughter, Warren. You might've been avoiding her for a decade, but I'd like to get to know her."

It was around five in the morning, the world the long stretch of grey that it is just before the sun begins to rise. He sat there a long while, at that counter in his kitchen, thinking. He was ashamed, and depressed, and guilty. His wife was right. He missed his little girl more than he'd ever admitted to himself. He thought she'd be better off without him, and yet it was more than that. It was selfish of him, but the night when Rebeca came to him and looked at him with those eyes so much like his own, he couldn't handle it. It was as if he were looking at his inner demon, his troubles, his own reflection in his little girl. He loved Rebeca, but on that night he needed someone to blame. And he was so drunk at that point his mind easily made the connection from all of this pain and problems happening because of Rebeca. Back then it was her fault he was in the situation he was in. She was the only reason he'd stayed with his wife, who he couldn't stand. The wife who was no love to him. Rebeca was the reason he hadn't gotten a divorce and he lied about where he'd been. Rebeca was the reason he couldn't openly be with Sheila. Rebeca was the reason he came home to misery and a drunk. It took so much work to raise a child. It cost so much of his time, and money, and patience. It took more out of him than he'd expected fatherhood to; when coupled with the stress from his wife and his job, he'd needed an outlet. And then both Sheila and his wife were leaving him.

It made sense to blame everything on her.

Which, obviously, was complete crack to him now.

She was his responsibility. There was a time in his life when he and his first wife were in love, or in love with what the other could've represented. Bringing a child into this world seemed like the next rational step. Then he got a new job. Then, his wife lost hers after she'd stayed on an extended maternity leave. Then, the baby kept them up until all hours of the night, only stopping to cry when someone held her close and rocked her to sleep. They'd gotten a new computer for his wife's job hunt, and she'd found a new way to earn money. Then, he'd gotten a promotion. And she stuck with gambling. And he'd had work to do; his wife and the child were a distraction that kept him lagging behind. They'd started to grow apart. She'd started to ask him for money he didn't have. He started to ask for an intimacy that she wouldn't give because he didn't have any money. He'd hardly noticed his little girl growing up without him.

But she was always there, hiding in the shadows.

Now, years later, after all was said and done, Rebeca was his greatest regret.

So he sat there staring at a phone, laying aside his wallet.

Outside the squat window above the sink, the sun was starting to rise, revealing the purple bags beneath his eyes. The coffee Sheila made earlier sat cold in the pot. He remembered, just barely remembered, the number of his ex mother-in-law. At least, he thought it was her number. It was a place to start.

He picked up the phone.

* * *

><p>Beca couldn't believe she was here.<p>

The other morning, on the phone? Turns out it was her father calling.

Though she didn't talk to her mother much anymore, she couldn't blame the woman for being a little mad. She thought it was hilarious. Even more so once she'd found out why he was calling. The guy wanted to get back in touch. Wanted to get to know her. Wanted to meet up and talk.

Guess what dude? Not in the same state anymore.

And, oh yeah. Forgot about this- 'cuz, whoo, time sure does fly by in the blink of an eye- but it's been frigging nine years.

It didn't deter him in the least.

After calling another three times, stubborn mule, he showed up on their doorstep like an unwanted surprise from the neighbor's cat. She recognized him: same bed-head hair and professor get up. Same partially distracted expression. And his eyes were the same color as hers. And like the complete mess that he was right there on her doorstep, she felt the need to clean that shit up and get on with her life. Her nose scrunched up in distaste.

She'd be lying if she said she wasn't outside of her comfort zone. He didn't look too pleased to see her either, which made Beca wonder why he'd even showed up in the first place. It was a good thing _that woman she lived with_ was out right now, otherwise the police would've shown up to their door again. The man looked at her and she could tell he had no idea who she was. This could be fun. First time talking to her sperm donor in years; he'd come here looking for her and couldn't recognize his own daughter when he saw her. She smirked.

"Can I help you?" her tone was cut and pasted, precise and clear. It startled him. He hadn't exactly expected her to stop there.

The man scrambled to his feet, sliding his hands into his jacket pockets. He looked sheepish, "Oh! Uh, yes. Yes, my name is Warren Mitchell." He offered his hand, she didn't take it. She wasn't impressed. "I'm, uh, I'm looking for an Elizabeth Taylor or Rebeca Mitchell? I knocked on the door, but no one seems to be here." There was one difference with the man, she noticed upon closer inspection. His hair was thinning.

She rolled her eyes and said, "Maybe you should take that as a sign and go."

He blinked. "Excuse me?" Warren used that tone that demanded respect.

She shouldered her way passed him to the front door of her house, sliding out her keys and unlocking it. "Oh, I'm sorry. I would've thought that'd be a word in your vocabulary." Saucily, she continued over her shoulder, "Go. Gee- Oh. It's a two letter word that means _get the hell out of my yard!_"

Warren took in the girl's dark clothes, heavy eye liner, her many ear piercings and tattoos. She could practically see him sticking his nose up in the air like he was above it. There was a twitch in the man's jaw and his face was reddening in anger. She laughed, "O- There it is! Careful, old man! Don't want all that hot air in your head to blow-"

He raised his finger at her. Her eyebrows raised somewhat incredulously in response, "Look here, young lady, I'm just trying to get back in touch with my daughter. If she's not here, or if they've moved, that's fine and I'll leave. The least you can do is pay me some common human decency and tell me straight out. There's no need to be rude."

Beca opened the door and stopped. She turned around to look at the man. "Straight out, huh? Okay, how's this for an answer-"

Before Warren had a chance to take in her words, the door had been shut and locked in his face.

That was the first time that he'd shown up at her door.

The next time she'd seen the man, he knocked persistently on the front door at eight in the morning... during her mother's weekend off. It was hilarious when ol' Ms. Taylor answered it, because it was clear that of the two people he knew to live in this abode, he recognized his wife. He'd barely gotten a word out in explanation before her mother splashed her morning tequila in his face and slammed the door shut. He sputtered before heading back to his rental car.

She debated the pros and cons of vandalism.

In the end, she decided she was more of a music person than an artistic person; if she was going to vandalize a vehicle, it had to be done right or not at all.

And then he showed up on her birthday.

She hadn't bothered to answer the door since the moment she heard someone knocking on it. Beca knew who was there and she had work later, besides. She decided to let him think that no one was home, which wouldn't be too difficult since her mother really wasn't there. She'd gone out with Mr. Ryan.

An hour later, the knocking stopped. This suited her perfectly since she'd rather he not be there when she leave for work. Which, speaking of, her shift started in thirty minutes. Now was a better time than any to go.

Four hours later, she came home from work and went to get the mail. There, sitting snug in the mailbox, was a small package all wrapped up in ribbons and bows. She didn't bother to open it; she threw it in the trash. There weren't any letters from the recording studio in LA she was trying to get a deal with. That was her future. Music. Not Portland, Maine or Atlanta, Georgia, but sunny side LA, California.

She just needed to get a deal with a recording company somewhere out there, or even just to get her name out there. Get some notice. When she turned twenty-one, she could sell the house and move out there, really start to make a difference. Her mother hated this place anyway, and she was nothing if not a resourceful woman. Hell, her mother'd practically moved in with Mr. Ryan already. Beca was confident her mother would land on her feet.

Warren tried again later that night, when her mother was home. To her surprise, Ms. Taylor (she kept the woman as separate from herself as possible- never Elizabeth) let him in.

Even stranger: ex-husband and ex-wife sat down in the kitchen together and had a rational conversation over a glass of wine, like real people do.

To her complete disbelief, it was about her.

She thinks her mother knew more about her future plans to sell their home than she let on, because the next thing she knows they're actually agreeing on getting Beca a "proper" (*cough* *cough* FREE *cough*) education, and encouraging her to rethink her future. They want her to attend Barden. As in, Barden University. As in, the Barden University in Georgia- the place her father works at.

She's not really sure she'd ever had a say in the matter. Why. Why. Why is the legal age of becoming an adult set at eighteen? Sure, maybe she could file for emancipation if she could afford it. Minor detail being that she doesn't get her inheritance until she's twenty-one. By then, it's kind of pointless. She doesn't need to rethink her future. She doesn't want to go to college. She doesn't need to further her education. She knows what she wants to do with her life. Why couldn't they understand that? Hell, why did they choose now of all times to band together and act like over-controlling parents?

If there was one upside to this, she'd be away from her mother.

Warren wanted her to live with him and his- hold on a second, wife?- Sheila. He wanted to get to know her again, and he wanted her to get to know Sheila. Wow, what a noble endeavor you've undertaken, Warren.

Beca flat-out refused.

Still, since she didn't have much of an argument in this case she set the rules.

She would be dormming.

She'd choose her own courses.

And she would not be forced to check in with Warren.

And he was fine with that so long as she'd come back to Georgia with him. Funny thing he forgot about her daughter was that she still had to finish her senior year of high school. It'd be a few more months before she could go.

Beca was not excited for it.

* * *

><p>Today was the day.<p>

Today was _the _day.

_Today _was the _day._

The start of her final year at Barden University, but, more importantly, the start of her co-captaincy of the Barden Bellas. Both she and Aubrey'd gotten the torch passed onto them by a rather aggravated Alice. Which, she couldn't exactly blame for her frustration. It was, partially, sort of their fault for the mess at last year's ICCA's. Literally.

Aubrey'd certainly been a wreck for the first few weeks following. Chloe tried her best to be there for her friend, and tried her best not to show how disappointed she actually was. Music was a hobby to Aubrey, who'd had her life planned out for her since the age of two months. For Chloe? Her parents wanted her to be happy in whatever she did. She'd tried, for a while, to follow in her father's footsteps and be a surgeon... but blood tremendously grossed her out. So, she'd tried to be a teacher. There was only so much even Chloe herself could take of children before she cracked. Chloe was many things, and singing was pretty much her life, but- and please don't think her snobby or overbearing or ridiculous for saying this- she didn't want to go with the obvious choice.

And, as much as singing meant to her (she'd never let it up), she wanted to be able to help people in some way. Like, really help people.

She majored in psychology and in the theatre arts, for no particular reason.

Aubrey tried to help her out, to really make some decisions about her future. Chloe appreciated the effort, it was... She couldn't make any decisions. There was something she was waiting on. Something was going to happen. Something was missing.

When that something came along, then she could figure out her future.

Until then... she was stuck.

Aubrey worried about her, she could tell. They'd lived together for four years now; had known each other for basically their whole lives (since the second grade if you were one of those people and needed to be precise). There was a little indent in her brow and a nibble on her lip that gave it away.

Rather than continue to think on this topic, Chloe got back to thinking about _today. _Because-

It was _the day._

She was elated, excited, jumping up and down on her tippy-toes. Today she got to meet new people and talk about her favorite subject. Aubrey was rolling her eyes at her, but Chloe felt like throwing her head back and opening her arms up to the world and dancing around and around in circles-

"Now you sound like the Running in Circles Club," Aubrey put her two cents in.

Chloe, radiating happiness, explained, "But doesn't today feel so wonderful? Like, there's so much _potential_-" She grinned. "Let's go, Aubrey! Time to go find some new Bella sister's!" Chloe tugged on her arm as Aubrey tried not to smile. Chloe's happiness was infectious, and Aubrey wanted to keep a clear head for the day. She didn't quite feel that sense of opportunity like Chloe did, but she had to agree that she was excited and a little nervous. There was some potential for that day.

As well as being _the day _their senior year began, it was also Orientation Day, which meant there was an Activities Fair they had to be at. They had a stand to set up. They were both a little worried that people might still remember the disaster that became last year's ICCA's (it was on national television: everyone was calling it Puke Gate). Still, Aubrey remained optimistic that people would turn up. And Chloe? She'd started out that way, but as more and more people kept on walking by, none of them having qualified Aubrey's vision of bikini ready girls who could sing, her hopes for that day started to die.

There was that feeling again that something was missing.

It was an itch in her back, and in her side, and in her mind, and it was on the tip of her tongue- but she couldn't for the life of her figure out what it was that was missing. It was something. Something was supposed to be there.

It irritated her to no end.

When Baloney Barb, of all people, turned them down, she knew enough was enough. "How about we just get good singers...?" she clued Aubrey in. From there, it was like dominoes all set up. She tipped one over, and the rest kept falling.

They passed a flier to a girl named Amy (Fat Amy, she corrected herself), and another to Denise, Jessica and Mary Elise, who each grabbed a few more in turn for their friends. One girl snuck by, stared at them strangely for a moment until they passed her a flier, and then left without saying a word. Chloe was starting to feel her hopes lifted and it was Aubrey who started to feel her hopes fall. She was hoping for a total of eight girls this year in order to have a precise, even number of ten. One could not imagine how much it bugged Aubrey to no end that they couldn't find one more girl to fill that potential slot, not to mention what would happen if none of the other girls who'd grabbed a flier could sing. And Chloe knew how much those details irritated Aubrey, who needed everything to perfection, so she looked around for an answer.

Then Chloe saw the girl and couldn't help herself, she almost felt like she'd found what she was missing as her heart skipped a beat.

_"Oh, Aubrey, what about her?"_

* * *

><p><strong>A.N.<strong>

I was looking to make this chapter a little longer than it was, but some things have come up right now that're making it difficult to write. Just some problems in the family that've been going on for a while now that I'm trying to come to terms with. One of my reviewers requested more from Chloe's angle, and while you have to understand that it is definitely my utmost intention to do so sometime in the near future, Chloe's character is an extremely upbeat and happy person. It's difficult for me to write for that tone when I'm not exactly happy at the moment, otherwise everything that I read and write feels kind of fake to me, and it's nearly impossible to get into the story. I just need some time to sort things out and find my center again.

This, in no way, means that I'm going stop writing this fic or that the chapters are going to be few and far between; I'm just trying to explain why some of what I write might not be to the same degree (in my opinion anyway), or as much from Chloe's POV.

Writing is very cathartic for me, whether through fanfiction or otherwise; there'd be no way possible for me to stop.

That said, thanks for reading.

Special thanks to my **Guests, Bechloe always, crystalsoda1, KissKendrick, **and **mo11 **for leaving beautiful comments and for the encouragement- It still seriously surprises me how much of a response I'm getting to this fic. Love your input guys! This is going to continue to be a slow-ish pace, Beca's mom will most likely stay terrible, and I'm gonna need to know what you guys think the final pairing should be if you have a specific pairing in mind: personally, I have three different endings this fic could go... :) Hope you can sort of see where the next chapter's heading!

**smw48910: **I have a plan for Aubrey 3:) Mwah-hah-ha-hah-hah-ha... And unless the general feedback from all of the reviewers tell me otherwise, Bechloe is probably where this fic is going to go.

**Snow White Misery: **Out of plain curiosity, how would you describe a long, detailed fic if you were a vegetarian? ^^ Not that I am; that was just a thought that popped in my head. But, seriously though... ? And I completely understand where you're coming from with the Chloe thing; it's honestly bothering me like crazy that I haven't included her so much, but it's difficult for me right now to put myself into her shoes. Chloe's about a bazillion times more affectionate, loveable, optimistic, and happy than I am. Don't get me wrong (total Bechloe diehard), Chloe's a great character- but another thing right now is that I sort of think I need to focus more on Beca and Aubrey than Chloe at the beginning so we can see where each girl is coming from in respect to what Chloe might represent in their lives, and draw Chloe more into this fic later. It's a little bit of two things. Don't worry though- You're not at all a downer! You're just being honest about your opinions, which is something I definitely can appreciate- Thanks for the great review! Hope you continue to enjoy it. :)


End file.
